


something comforting

by hezenvengeance



Series: the light lives in all places [4]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Fluff, Happy Ending, M/M, Patch 5.0: Shadowbringers Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:14:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24831433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hezenvengeance/pseuds/hezenvengeance
Summary: meeting again; at the end, at the beginning.shb end spoilers.
Relationships: G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Warrior of Light
Series: the light lives in all places [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1648006
Kudos: 23





	something comforting

The first thing the Exarch is conscious of is the sun.

It rises gently over Amaurot - what is left of Amaurot, Emet-selch’s illusion stripped away, the ruins of centuries past laid bare - warming his skin and setting his crystal arm aglow. And Emet-selch himself has found his end, the shadow that haunted their long and fraught campaign finally banished for good. He need not fear his plans being waylaid again, he will save Erebos if it is the last thing he does, _will_ be the last thing he does, the only fitting end for his sorry excuse for a soul.

The sun is rising. Erebos stands before him, battered and bruised but _standing_ all the same, cradling his topaz carbuncle (the one that shields, that _protects_ ) like a lifeline. He is radiant as always (as if the Exarch could think of him any other way), undaunted in the face of everything this sorry tale has put him through, everything the _Exarch_ has put him through, and his aether is-

“...He is as he once was,” he hears Y’shtola says softly, with a disbelief that mirrors his own. The relief would be enough to take him to his knees, but then Ryne speaks. Ryne, sweet Ryne confirming what he already knows, what he can feel now that the darkness has been peeled back, real and natural light laying them bare. 

His soul is healed. Only a slight (a _shard_ , he thinks) but the difference is palpable. The axe, the last vestiges of light-infused aether burning away is confirmation enough. 

Only Erebos, blessed, serendipitous, incredibly _stupidly_ lucky Erebos could come through the other side of such a cataclysmic, soul-shattering event better off than before. 

That death-defying luck has buoyed them this far. It may run out here, where the Exarch decides to push it, to cling to the tiny sliver, the thin rind of hope within him that Erebos will ever think dearly of him again. He doesn’t deserve to be loved again, not after the schemes and lies and every little thing he ever hid from Erebos, like ignorance would serve as a shield. He should know better than to hope. 

But he wants to try, because in the moment his hood had flown back and his face was revealed, the Exarch had not missed the recognition in Erebos’s eyes, and his heart had been broken all the more for it. A betrayal of the highest order; to lie to him, to pretend not to know who he was, to watch the face of his guiding star cloud over with grief as he lies through his teeth and tells him that no, he does not know the name G’raha Tia, all for it to come crashing down right at the end. 

And yet.

And _yet_.

There is a smile waiting for him that he does not deserve. 

His mouth is dry, throat raw from screaming at Ascian hands, begging for a life not his own. His hands shake. Erebos is looking at him, not expectantly but with that same patient kindness the Exarch remembers from conversations by firelight, woes and worries shared in confidence. But if anyone deserves answers, apologies, anything he could ever wish for, it is Erebos. 

“Where to start...?” It’s a tremulous thing, so much weaker than what he feels burning in his breast, but a deep yearning for a thing he had forever thought beyond his grasp has taken hold, and his thoughts will allow for little else. There is something he must say, though. 

“I believe I owe you all an apology.” Red eyes sweep the group, and settle in the middle. “And you most especially, Erebos.”

He gets a soft laugh in response, and the Exarch could well of never heard him speak before for the way it floods his veins with warmth, a shot of sunlight straight to his shattered heart. “If we’re using names all of a sudden, I’d much prefer if we used yours, G’raha.”

It hits like a physical blow; to hear that voice shape his name without the deep ache of loss or the visceral mark of pain, to hear it said in gentleness and love again, after so many centuries clinging to mere memories- 

The tears come. There is something else he wishes to say, but for the first time - the first of many - Erebos beats him to it. 

“I missed you.”

There is little else to be said, and he lacks the energy to return the proclamation with the zeal it deserves. It will come, in due time - time they have now, thanks to the Scions, thanks to Erebos - as will a great many other things. 

But there is little room in G’raha’s mind or heart right now save for a single want, and if he reads the yearning writ plainly on Erebos’s face, then the elezen wants much the same. 

They meet in the middle; G’raha all but collapsing into Erebos’s arms, savouring the warm and solid body beneath him he never thought he would hold again. But Erebos is real, tangible - not the ephemeral shade that so often haunted his dreams, ghosts of touches and talks long past. No, this Erebos is _real_ ; the sobs that hitch in his chest, the tears wetting G’raha’s hair, the hands clinging to G’raha’s waist - a desperate mans hold, as if the Exarch will slip through his fingers at any moment. But how can G’raha blame him, when he holds Erebos the same? After all, they are long, _long_ overdue their share of happiness.

To be tempered is to adore, to follow without question, to love and cherish and worship. If anyone were to ask, he would say Erebos tempered him long ago. 

He would have it no other way. This embrace is home, sure as the rising sun that paints them in Allagan gold just as it did at the top of Syrcus tower, lifetimes upon lifetimes ago. G’raha could follow no other, love no other, find no comfort or shelter in the another’s arms. 

“Good morning, G’raha Tia.”

It’s so soft, barely a whisper, but it makes him feel cherished beyond belief; G’raha looks up long enough to find the love he feels swelling in his chest mirrored back in ice blue eyes. The tears return anew, earnest and heartfelt, and G’raha chokes on a sob and lets them fall freely, utterly lost to Erebos’s soft smile and the warmth of his arms. G’raha sinks into the embrace, let’s his tears stain Erebos’s torn and bloodstained sweater where his head comes to rest against Erebos’s breastbone, the elated thrum of his heart echoing in G’raha’s ear. This time it’s easy. 

“Good morning, Erebos!”


End file.
